


A Simple Dance

by sdk



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, wizard_love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-29
Updated: 2009-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/pseuds/sdk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver shows up just when Hermione is trying her best to forget him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myownmuggle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownmuggle/gifts).



> Written as part of the Wizard_Love exchange in 2009 for myownmuggle. Special thanks to Aldi and Lilith for their thoughtful feedback and betaing skills. All mistakes that remain are my own.

It started at Ron's wedding of all places. 

Hermione knew him from school, of course; he was Gryffindor Quidditch Captain for Harry's first three years on the team, and she remembered seeing him at the World Cup, and later on that terrible day fighting at Hogwarts, but really, she never gave Oliver Wood much thought until the night Ron and Luna exchanged their vows. 

And now, two weeks later, he was constantly on her mind. 

Hermione rationalised those thoughts away endlessly. She'd had too much to drink at the wedding--her ex-boyfriend's wedding--and she'd only been feeling lonely. She'd never have behaved so impulsively otherwise. And it was obvious that Oliver wasn't remotely interested because wizarding communication was not that difficult. One didn't need a telephone number or an address, only an owl and a name. The lack of an owl bearing his signature was a clear sign. 

A sign which didn't matter, because Hermione was not remotely interested either.

She reassured herself of this fact once more as she stepped out of the Ministry's lift straight into an armful of brooms. 

"Oh!" Her briefcase slipped from her fingers, spilling parchment over the floor.

"I'm sorry." The voice came from behind lopsided broomsticks, and Hermione waved him off and knelt to collect her stray papers. 

"No, it's my fault. I wasn't paying attention." A quick glance at the walls plastered with Quidditch posters confirmed she wasn't even on the correct floor, but before she had a chance to chastise herself, that same glance revealed the concerned brown eyes of the man she'd collided with. The man who was the reason she was distracted in the first place. 

"Oliver…what are you doing here?"

He smiled and Hermione looked away, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. She was just surprised to see him, that was all. 

"Dropping off some broom designs for approval." He hoisted his brooms onto a nearby desk, then squatted down next to her, and despite her protests, helped gather her scattered parchment. His fingers brushed hers for only an instant, but it was long enough to hurdle Hermione straight into the memory of those same fingers along her jaw. 

~

Hermione's mind is swimming with whisky. She never drinks whisky--it's perfectly revolting--but tonight she's glad she didn't pass on George's special wedding punch because it gives her the perfect excuse to hang onto Oliver's neck as they dance. 

Oliver traces the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"You're drunk," he says and she shakes her head vigorously, though that turns out to be a mistake because now she's dizzy. Only it's another good reason to press closer--just so she doesn't fall.

"No, I'm not." 

"Well, I am." Oliver's brown hair is clipped short like he used to wear it in school, but it's long enough to run her fingers through. She wonders how she ever resisted before. "You're really beautiful, Hermione."

A bubble of laughter escapes before Hermione can squash it. She shouldn't find it so funny, but with Oliver's sputtered "What?" and his eyes colouring with confusion, her laughter only grows. 

"You said you were drunk. Can't trust your judgement."

"I didn't mean…I promise, I thought you were before the punch, too. Really, I did-"

"Oh, Oliver." And without a thought, Hermione kisses him.

~

"I think that's all of it." 

"Oh, yes…yes." Hermione scanned the floor just to make sure, then slid the stack of parchment back into her briefcase as they both stood. "Well, I should be off." 

Hermione turned to escape back into the lift, praying that Oliver's business with the Department of Magical Games and Sports wasn't already concluded, but he called for her to hold the doors. Despite how she wished to let the lift close, she'd be hard-pressed to pretend she hadn't heard him, and reluctantly she stuck her briefcase between the sliding doors. They dinged back open revealing Oliver's boyish smile, reminiscent of his days at Hogwarts.

"Thanks," he said, moving to her side in the lift.

A boyish smile, reminiscent of his Hogwarts days--what was she thinking? Hermione hadn't paid a whit of attention to him back then, and she wouldn't be now, either, had it not been for…a simple lapse in judgement. That was the best way to think of it.

"I should have asked--this lift is going down?"

Hermione nodded. "The Atrium."

"Oh."

"That's not where you need to go? Should I request another floor?"

"Oh no, I'm going to the Atrium." 

The lift whirled to life. Hermione only had to survive the ride for one level, and that shouldn't be too hard. Yes, it was awkward, but as long as she focused on the lift doors ahead of her and not her present company, she would be fine. 

"I've been meaning to…I'm glad we ran into each other because I've been wanting to-"

Hermione broke her rule and glanced at Oliver. He looked nervous, shifting his weight, tapping his fingers against the handle of a broom. 

"It's not necessary. I'm a big girl, Oliver. There's no need to soften the blow."

"Sorry, what?"

The lift doors dinged open once more, and Hermione had never been more grateful to see the hallway leading to the Atrium in her life. Just a few short paces and she'd be lost amongst the throng heading for the exit floos, far away from whatever pitiful excuse Oliver had contrived to explain why he wasn't interested in her 'like that.'

"Hermione, wait!"

Hermione ignored Oliver's footfalls behind her as she strode toward the security gates. 

"I just wanted to ask-"

Hermione flashed her Ministry badge to the guard, and he nodded her through. If only those bloody gates would hurry up and open.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"What?" Hermione turned in her tracks and found Oliver shifting his brooms; it seemed they were about to fall in his haste to keep up with her pace. His cheeks were flushed and there was a small tuft of brown hair sticking up at the crown of his head; her fingers itched to smooth it down.

~

"How can your hair be so short and yet so messy," she says, scrunching her fingers through Oliver's fringe. 

"You're the one messing it up." His laughter is as warm as his hands on her waist. They aren't so much dancing now as swaying to the music; Hermione's not even sure if the music still plays, but as they turn, she sees Ron and Luna and a few other couples dancing in the Burrow's garden.

"It was already mussed." Her hands drop to his neck and she fiddles with the sparse hair that fades to a vee at his nape. "Probably from Quidditch--I saw you playing when I arrived."

"Not for long. Mrs. Weasley chased us off our brooms. She was on a tear."

"I remember. 'Don't you lot know there's a wedding tonight?'" 

"She looked much more menacing than you."

"I can look menacing," she says, though she can't stop smiling. Maybe it's only George's punch, but she thinks it has more to do with her dance partner.

"I don't believe you." His hands slide around her back; the heat of his palms burns through her gown. When his fingers curl at the base of her spine, her breath hitches. 

"Luckily for you, I don't feel like proving you wrong." Their first kiss was only the briefest touch of their lips, but she still feels the ghost of that touch now. Hermione decides that it's not enough. "But I can, if you insist. Or I can kiss you again."

~

"Would you like to have dinner with me? 

"I heard you perfectly well the first time." Hermione wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but her briefcase weighed down her arm. That would only seem defensive anyway, and Hermione was anything but defensive. She was just…caught off-guard.

"You said…so I thought-"

"I'm aware of what I said." 

One of Oliver's brooms began to slip, and she called out a warning, but with a wince, he caught it, then shifted his hold once more. "These are a bit cumbersome."

Hermione held back a snort. She hadn't forced him to chase her down the hallway with an armful of brooms. 

"I'm busy tonight."

"All right, what about tomorrow? Friday? Or you name the day--anytime."

"Oliver-"

"Wood! There you are!" Ludo Bagman strode out from the hallway and clasped Oliver's shoulder. Oliver nearly lost his grip on the brooms again. "We've been waiting for you upstairs. Did you get lost?"

Ludo was dressed in proper robes, but whenever Hermione saw him, she couldn't help but picture him strutting around in his old Wasps uniform, his stomach threatening to burst through the seams. He still pulled out his faithful yellow and black for every special Ministry function, eager to relive his glory days.

Honestly, Quidditch types were all the same. Oliver probably still had his Puddlemere robes, too, and pranced about in them when he was home alone. 

Though Oliver more likely still looked quite fit in his uniform. Perhaps she could find a picture in the _Daily Prophet _archives--she was fairly certain they'd won some sort of division something-or-other while Oliver was still on the team. The _Prophet_ must have covered it--not that it mattered, really. She didn't have time to go digging around old newspapers for a glimpse of Oliver in his Quidditch gear, and she didn't want to, besides. 

"No, I was just…if you'll give me a moment, Hermione and I were-"

"It's fine. It was nice to see you again, Oliver. Ludo." She gave them each a nod and walked through the gates, queuing up for the exit floo furthest away from the security gates, and vehemently _not_ searching for a memory of Oliver in Gryffindor's finest. 

It was only an hour after Hermione arrived home that an owl fluttered to her window. 

> _If not dinner, how about coffee?   
> \- Oliver_

~

"Hermione--you'll regret this tomorrow."

"And how do you know?" Hermione grabs Oliver's hand and tugs him behind the garden hedge. The sun has long since faded from the sky, and as they move away from the soft glow of the lanterns, Hermione can only see two steps in front of her. Somehow Oliver's eyes still shine brightly in the darkness. "Are you suddenly a master of Divination? Because you should know, I don't believe in that rot."

"No, I'm not a master of-"

Hermione cuts him off with a kiss. The air is thick with the sweet smell of violets, but Oliver's mouth is sweeter. She curls her tongue around his and tastes the nectar of punch, the spice of laced whisky and something else lingering beneath that's even more intriguing, something wholly Oliver.

"Good, because I'm rather more fond of Quidditch players."

"I don't play Quidditch professionally anymore."

"Who said anything about professionally?" She kisses him again and this time his hands come alive, roaming over her back, sliding along the curve of her spine. His fingers hesitate at the clasp just above her zipper and she exhales a muffled "Yes" against his lips. She begins to search for the fastening of his robes, but Oliver grabs her shoulders suddenly and pulls away.

"What's wrong? Are you afraid someone might see?"

Most of the guests have gone home already, but there's still merriment ringing out from the few mostly drunken ones that remain. Hidden behind the hedge, the others feel very far away, drowned out by Hermione's fluttering pulse and Oliver's forceful breaths. 

"No, Merlin, no, I just…are you certain? Because I don't want-"

"Shh." Hermione holds a finger to his lips. "I want this."

She pulls at Oliver's robes again and sighs quietly when her fingers meet skin. There's something to be said for traditional Wizarding robes--no tiresome garments beneath to get in her way. Oliver traces small circles along her shoulders, his heart beating fast beneath her palm. 

"And I promise I won't regret this tomorrow."

~

Oliver sent three more owls before Hermione retired to bed, and two more were waiting when she woke the next morning. Her dreams had been full of the night of Ron's wedding, so vivid that she could still smell the crushed violets, feel them tickling her shoulder blades as she shook herself free from the vestiges of sleep. 

There'd been no communication from Oliver in two weeks, and now she had six owls waiting for an answer. 

"Fine," she muttered under her breath as she reached for the quill and ink well bedside her bed. She scrawled a short reply on the back of one of his notes.

> _Coffee, the Woolly Wand, 6pm sharp.   
> -Hermione_

As soon as she sent the owl off, her stomach twisted with nerves. 

She was being ridiculous, and she told herself that each time Oliver invaded her thoughts throughout the day. She knew he was likely just trying to ease some sense of guilt for taking advantage. She would assure him that wasn't the case, and that it had been just a one-off between friends, and then maybe she'd stop thinking about him all the bloody time!

She considered arriving late, hoping he'd given up on her and already be gone. Or perhaps she could not show up at all, and instead send an owl in her absence with some excuse about work and absolutely no promise to reschedule. But the closer six o'clock came, the more her resolve to avoid Oliver weakened, and in the end she arrived at The Woolly Wand at precisely 5:58pm. The only reason she'd come was to squash the small trace of hope inside her. And if Oliver didn't turn up by five minutes past, she was leaving. 

But when Hermione opened the door, she found Oliver already seated at a corner table near the back. He looked up, smiled, and her stomach flipped.

Hermione was growing to hate that smile.

~

Hermione stretches out in a patch of violets. The stems prickle against her skin, but she's too caught up in Oliver tracing the line of her face to pay them much mind. His touch is soft, like fairy wings against her cheek. He's shadowed in darkness, but her thumb finds his lips and she feels him smiling. 

His fingers dance along her neck; he pushes the straps of her gown down over her shoulders. She arches with his touch, but he tortures her by skimming the backs of his fingers along the side of her breast. 

"I'm not delicate," she whispers.

"You're beautiful," he says. She laughs again as she did the first time he said those words.

"You can't even see me properly now."

"There's more than one way to see."

Before she can reply, he dips and kisses down her neck, and her words are lost in a breathy moan.

~

"I'm glad you came," Oliver said as Hermione took the seat across from him.

"I thought about cancelling." Heat surged to her cheeks. She hadn't planned on telling him that and she quickly added, "But after six owls…"

"I'm nothing if not persistent." Oliver fiddled with the handle of his mug. "Oh--I didn't know what you'd like. They have coffee and several teas, and I think pumpkin juice."

"Coffee's fine." Hermione started to rise, but Oliver shot up from his seat.

"I'll get it." He rushed off before Hermione had a chance to protest, but at least with him away from the table, she could take the chance to calm the butterflies in her stomach.

It's that disarming smile, she thought as she stared at the ridiculous logo on Oliver's mug. A sheep with a wand hanging from its mouth--who came up with these ideas anyway? But she wasn't supposed to be thinking of The Woolly Wand's branding, but a way for her to guard herself during the coming conversation. 

Oliver was much too quick, though, already back at the table before she could even start. He set her mug down beside two pots of sugar and cream. 

"I forgot to ask how you take your coffee," he said as he took his seat. "I'm not very good at this."

"Ordering coffee?"

"No--this." Oliver gestured between them at the table. "I'm not good with women."

"I'd say you were pretty good the other night." Hermione nearly clapped her hand over her mouth. She couldn't look at Oliver, so she dropped her gaze to her mug. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, she assured herself, though that didn't stop the heat from rising to her cheeks. It was better that she brought it up anyway--that's what they were here to talk about, after all. And Oliver would apologise and she'd tell him it wasn't necessary, and they'd part as friends. It was all going to plan.

~

Hermione curls her fingers into Oliver's hair, shuddering as his tongue swirls around her nipple again. 

"Such a tease," she whispers. She hooks her legs around his thighs and tries to pull him closer, but he won't budge. He titters with soft laughter for a moment and his breath cools her skin, shooting a jolt of need straight to her centre. 

"I'm taking my time." 

Hermione's never been patient, and she wants Oliver now, but he continues to torment her with his lips and his tongue, his hands sliding over her hips, nails grazing her skin. Finally she feels him hard against her thigh, tantalisingly close to where she needs him to be. Her hands drop to grip his shoulders and she squirms, desperate for him to move. 

"Now--please-" 

Oliver lifts his head, his eyes so close to hers that even in shadows, she sees the dark flecks within the brown. "Are you-"

"Yes…I want-" The rest of her words are break off with a gasp as Oliver finally slides inside. 

~

"Just pretty good?" Oliver was peeking at Hermione over his coffee when she finally looked up. 

"Oliver…"

"Well, you were rushing me a bit, if you recall."

"I rushed _you_?" Hermione could recall no such thing, and the pace of their sexual activity wasn't the point of this anyway. "No, we are not going to discuss this."

"Why not?"

"Because…that's not…we're not here-" Hermione's tongue was slow and worthless and the words she wanted to say to get this conversation back on track were just not coming. And there was that stupid smile on Oliver's lips again, just a hint at the corners, and how was she expected to keep a level head when he kept doing that with his mouth--he was completely insufferable!

~

He rocks into her, panting raggedly with every thrust, and with every thrust she whimpers, trying to keep quiet because she knows they have to be quiet. She wants to moan his name, but instead she digs her fingers into his arm, leaving small angry marks in her wake; it's either that or she'll scream and she's not supposed to scream, but as he drives into her again and again, she's fast forgetting the reason why. 

His gaze locks with hers; she feels him holding back, and she wants to tell him it won't be long--she's so close--so close--just another minute more, but she can't speak; she's afraid if she speaks she'll scream and she's right on the edge, her body wound tight singing "Yes--please-" A hard pulse vibrates through her core and she bites her lip hard to keep the moan bottled in her throat, and Oliver lets go, flooding inside her. 

"Oliver--bloody hell, where did he go?"

Hermione collapses against the ground, her hair tangled with grass and crumpled violets, and Oliver sags against her, barely holding part of his weight on his elbows by her sides. 

"George! Come back-"

Someone's yelling, but it's too far away for Hermione to care. Oliver's warm against her and she closes her eyes, exhaling a contented sigh.

"Wait--heard something over here. Oliver? You there?"

The voices come closer and Hermione almost tells them to shut it because she's comfortable and they are way too loud, whoever they are, when suddenly Oliver tenses and rolls away. 

~

"We never had the chance to talk after."

Hermione remembered cursing George's name as he called out from the other side of the hedge, looking for Oliver for one last toast to the old Gryffindor Quidditch team. Then there was the scramble to gather clothes, and Oliver had been quicker, thankfully guiding George away while Hermione searched for her knickers.

"I looked for you later, but everyone was already gone. I'm sorry I didn't owl sooner. I should have. I wanted to."

Hermione took a deep breath. Oliver was finally getting to the point; he clearly hadn't taken her earlier words in the lift to heart and she started to remind him again that she wasn't a delicate little flower that needed to be treated with care when he finally spoke.

"So I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner."

"What?" Hermione surely needed to clean out her ears. Why would he be asking her to dinner when he'd already got her to agree to coffee. She was here, wasn't she? Ready to be let down easily--why in the world would he want to drag this out?

"That's the second time you've responded that way to my dinner invitation…but last time you seemed cross when I repeated it."

"You want to…"

"Have dinner with you some night, yes. If you're not interested…"

Not interested? No, Oliver had it all wrong. He was the one not interested, and she was the one that didn't care that he was not interested. It was a very distinct point, but soon it didn't much matter as she watched Oliver's lips turn down, that irritating smile nowhere to be found. _Oh…_

"It's all right to tell me if you're not…" He jiggled the loose handle of his mug, averting his eyes for a moment but soon his gaze was back on hers, and Hermione was so stupid, an absolute fool. 

"No-" she blurted out, then shook her head quickly. "I mean, yes--I am, yes. I'd like to have dinner with you."

The butterflies in her stomach had morphed into leprechauns doing a jig, but she didn't care at all once Oliver smiled again. 

"Fantastic--now?"

"Why don't we finish our coffee first?" Hermione couldn't help but mirror his enthusiasm, and she shook her head, holding back the urge to laugh. Oliver must have thought she was completely mental.

But he still wanted to have dinner with her.

"What is it?"

"Fair warning," she said. "I'm not very good at this."

"Drinking coffee?"

"No." Her smile turned wry. Any moment she felt as if she was going to break out into embarrassing giggles. "Dating."

He reached across the table and brushed his fingers over hers. "Sounds like we're a perfect match."

~

Hermione stands near the punch bowl and sips on her drink, smiling as Seamus and Neville wave at her from across the garden. The reception is in full swing and she scans the crowd, not realising who she's looking for until she finds Oliver Wood chatting with a very pregnant Angelina. 

There's just something about him that she can't put her finger on. She thinks it's his smile, the way his mouth turns up at the corners, sometimes crookedly, sometimes with a small flutter of his lips, and sometimes his grin nearly leaps off his face, he smiles so broadly. When he turns that smile to her, Hermione knows she should look away lest she be caught staring, but for some reason, she can't.

A moment later he's by her side and he extends a hand toward her. "Do you want to dance?"

"Yes, I'd like that." she says, unable to resist that smile, even though she's never been much of a dancer. She hopes Oliver won't mind her clumsy steps, but fortunately once he leads her to the dance floor, the music switches to a ballad. As Oliver rests his hands lightly on her waist, she thinks she can handle one simple slow dance.


End file.
